måndag 7 mars 2011

Writing, as I´m sure you all know, can be a real bitch. For me, it´s like this: I start writing something and maybe initially it´s good. Fresh. New. Then I continue and I fiddle and I polish and it sort of dies in my hands. Like it´s only good before I´m tamed by what I´m doing, when everything´s wild and new. Conclusion: I will never be a true writer! I´m only good (goodish?) when I improvise! Leavemeleavemeleaveme! No, stay! And forgive my short-comings.

lördag 5 mars 2011

It´s like this; it´s the oxygen we need and oxygen exists in air and water. Our lungs can extract it from air but not from water, it´s the opposite for fish.

I know. You told me.

Quit drawing on the living room table!

Do you know you mess with me when you remove stuff you´ve written from the internet? I go back and I try to find something and it´s gone. And I don´t care if you´ve evolved and moved on. That stuff meant something to someone and I´m not here to evaluate you on maturity or wit, I couldn´t care less actually -- be anyone you like, I´m here privately. And you never know what piece of information was important to me; it might have been the way you described something, your desperation or something you recommended. But now it´s gone. Well, copy stuff and keep them, you say, but I´m not that anal. Just leave things the way they are.

Ah, release it into the wind, you say, let it go! You´re right, I know, so why does change upset me? Why does loss, even the loss of some stranger´s internet thoughts, make me sad?

A man from another country moved to a small village and met someone´s schoolfriend. They had a baby boy and the man bought the village gas station and learned the language. He worked very hard, people respected him for that, came from a real working culture, someone´s dad said. He and the schoolfriend split up, but he stayed in the village, improved the gas station, built a pizza restaurant next to it, became part of the community. Eleven years later he took his son back to his home country and two of his male relatives held the boy while a third man performed a circumcision on him. Much against his will. When they came back to the village the boy caught an infection and had to be hospitalized to get well. Lots of sympathy was offered to his mother on facebook. No one shops at the gas station these days. Seriously, someone´s parents drive like 30 kilometres to get gas. The man will be out of business soon. That´s how small villages operate.

Somewhere the sport´s holiday just started. A family´s hosting a massive cold. The daughter´s lived in her pj´s for a week now and the son´s dizzy with fever, the dad´s got a sore throat and the mum´s got an eye infection. Some sport´s holiday! Although, they´re watching My Neighbour Totoro so you shouldn´t feel sorry for them.

And then she bought some new mittens, because her old ones were all worn out.

tisdag 1 mars 2011

I could give you some advice, but as life move along I´m leaning away from that sort of behaviour as it seems to enhance the amount of guilt in people´s lives, not the amount of quality.

Recipes? You want recipes? I bought fenugreek in an enthusiastic attempt to become more apt at African cooking. So far, well, we´ll just have to see -- strange can become delicious! I have other recipes, I have written down things I actually know how to make, but ah bleh sudden loss of interest...

Writing then. Nothing I can teach you, but we can always inspire each other. Some time ago I submitted four very short stories to ”Short, Fast and Deadly”. I was fairly certain at least some of them would be accepted, but they all got rejected and I got disappointed. So. Silly. I thought I´d moved beyond that, but no. Well, I applied one of my favourite strategies on this situation: I rearranged reality to better fit my needs.

This is what I came up with: the editor, a sensitive, real artistic guy, read my work and was so taken in by my talent he found it unbearable. Therefore, he had some wine, got thoroughly pissed and when he woke up the next morning my writing was gone! Vanished! From real life and his computer. Oh, the tragedy! The poor man now roams the Earth, starved and pale, glass shoe in hand, in search of me and my awesome work -- he can´t live without any of us! This is now how I remember it, yes it is! Fixed memory!

Whaddya mean? ”What about the rejection email?” Get with the story line, people! He was drunk and completely beside himself! Jeez…

I don´t think the stories really fit anywhere else though (with that very specific S, F & D rule they can´t be more than 420 characters) so here they are. Maybe they can be of some input use to some of you:

Power Dreams
On my lampshade there´s a pattern of dragonflies. So pretty those creatures; nicely shaped and completely symmetrical. As I fall asleep they come alive and I imagine myself reaching out for their fragile bodies and picking them, one by one. I collect them into a bouquet, their shimmering wings flutter helplessly as I put them in a vase. Now wouldn´t they make a master piece on any fancy old dinner table?

Tentacle Love
He´s got a very special talent; he can grow as many arms as he likes. He´s holding me tightly against himself, my bum against his erection, and I mold myself after him as he parts my labia, pinches my nipples, fists my hair. More arms; I suck on his finger as I offer him my wrists to hold, secure, restrain. He brings me off with the talents of a god and if, in the end, he happens to strangle me, I won´t object.

Perfect
Nothing´s cleaner than the first snow. In spring, she planted marigold by the stones in his backyard. They laughed and kissed. Her tomatoes grew during summer; she served them with mozzarella and he thought maybe, just maybe. Come fall she harvested carrots, silent and angry. The frost bruised the rest, like he bruised her. She said she´d leave but he put her where she belonged -- in his pure winter garden.

Family Photos
There´s a reluctance in the way he regards the world. ”You have to accept it for what it is!” she laughs, and frames her photos. Family photos. His smile is always forced and she laughs again, condescending, when she watches it.

In the last photo he takes of her she´s lying still on the floor, a pale beauty with hair drenched in red. He thinks she finally communicates some truth. He didn´t know she had it in her.

Bim, tiddely pom, tralla la la la… Oh, you still here? Very sweet of you! Let me share one thing: there´s a woman with a music project called ”Hello Saferide”. She´s from my hometown and you might not like the music or you might get really annoyed with her for having an accent (much like my own I imagine) but if you can see beyond that, I really think she´s got some special talent when it comes to writing. And she´s serious about it, which makes her a kindred spirit and an inspiration because she actually does this for a living. And she gets it out there, even if some of it isn´t correct or perfect… Her Swedish writing is more nuanced of course, but we can´t share that so… Bla bla bla "Hello Saferide", lyrics. Check it out if you want to.

And Becky, this is for you! The first photo ever taken of me as I arrived here!

You do know I´m taking you with me when I leave, don´t you? Your talent is expected elsewhere =)